


i am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling (i love you more than my own skin)

by sheisraging



Series: even the landscape resembles you [4]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life, domestic porn, erotic vaporub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheisraging/pseuds/sheisraging
Summary: In which Oliver gets a cold.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Series: even the landscape resembles you [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1516736
Comments: 38
Kudos: 60





	i am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling (i love you more than my own skin)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of my series 'even the landscape resembles you' and takes place within the first full year of them living together.

Oliver comes down with a cold at the end of March. It happens almost every year just around this time—when the season starts to change. His lecture hall fills with the echo of constant sniffles and the occasional hacking cough. There’s a month-long rotation of empty seats in every row. Oliver tries in vain to fight it off. He loads up on vitamins, drinks tons of water, washes his hands probably more times a day than is necessary, but the cold always manages to find him in the end.

The weather had been unseasonably warm all month and then suddenly dropped back down to the thirties. He’d been feeling all right, and then it hit him like a freight train; his limbs are all like lead weights—an impossible burden to carry home, even just the short distance from campus. His head is pounding, and his sinuses feel as though someone is holding them in a vice. He dismisses his morning class thirty minutes early, cancels his afternoon session, and lets the department secretary know he’s feeling under the weather. It’s raining outside, just a bit more than a light drizzle but enough to dampen Oliver’s clothes. To slick his hair and chill him to the bone. He walks half a block toward home and decides he can’t go any further, raises his arm, and hails a taxi.

He must doze off on the short ride from campus to the apartment, because he jolts awake to the taxi driver rapping against the partition. Oliver pays the fare and makes his way up the steps and into the front hall. He drops his briefcase by the door and steps out of his loafers, tosses his coat over the back of the sofa and slogs toward the kitchen. He hears Elio’s bare feet tapping across the floor as he’s looking for the kettle.

“Hey, you’re home early.”

Oliver sniffs, blinks heavily. “Coming down with something. I feel like shit,” he droops over the sink, holding the kettle under the faucet.

Elio slides over and leans against the counter beside him. “You’re all wet,” he murmurs, combing his fingers through the damp strands of Oliver’s hair.

Oliver nods and closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. “It’s drizzling.”

“You should’ve taken a taxi,” Elio shuts off the faucet, takes the kettle, and sets it on the burner.

“I did. I just walked for a few minutes first.”

“Come,” Elio takes his hand and nudges him gently away from the counter. “Shower and get into bed. I’ll come back down and make your tea.”

Oliver nods and lets himself be led up the stairs.

In their bathroom, Elio lets go of his hand and turns on the shower, then turns back to untuck and unbutton Oliver’s shirt. Oliver watches Elio’s face as he carefully undoes the buttons at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Okay?” Elio’s hands skim up to push the shirt off Oliver’s shoulder. His voice is a quiet echo in the tiled room.

Oliver nods, eyes not leaving his face.

Elio takes the shirt and lays it over the top of the hamper. “Do you think you have a fever?”

Oliver shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting in a vague hint of a smile. “I don’t know.”

“What’s so funny?” Elio smiles quietly back at him.

“Nothin’.”

Elio hums, slips his hand around the back of Oliver’s neck, and gently tugs him down. “Come here,” he mutters.

Oliver bends to Elio’s will. Eyes closed, he curves until he feels the press of Elio’s lips to his clammy forehead. He holds still while Elio cups the back of his head, breathes against his skin.

“You’re warm, but I don’t think you have a fever,” Elio whispers, kisses his forehead, both cheeks.

“Okay,” Oliver stays put, curved to Elio’s touch until he’s pushed upright again.

“Hey,” Elio brushes a hand against his cheek.

“Hmm?” Oliver frowns, reaches out to tug at the old t-shirt of his that Elio is wearing. “How come you’re home?”

Elio tilts his head. “You really are out of it, huh?” He bites his lip. “It’s Friday,” he reaches down to unbuckle Oliver’s belt and tug it free. “I don’t have classes on Friday.” He loops the belt over the towel rack and works on undoing Oliver’s trousers.

Oliver groans, dragging his hands over his face. “Fuck, all of my students must think I’ve lost my mind,” he grumbles.

“Not if they all have what you have,” Elio shrugs, bending to slip Oliver’s pants over his knees and off his feet. He taps at Oliver’s calves one at a time, lifting his feet and peeling off his socks. “I’m sure they understand that you’re sick,” he says, dropping Oliver socks into the hamper and laying his pants across the top with his dress shirt.

“Yeah,” Oliver nods, rubs at his temples.

Elio watches him for a moment, takes in his flushed, clammy skin, his watery eyes, the overall exhaustion so apparent in his body, and wants nothing more than to hold him, to be skin to skin, with not an inch between. Take each and every ounce of hurt away, absorb all the aches and pains, the stuffy nose, the scratch in his throat, take it all until Oliver is whole, and healthy.

He reaches up and tugs his own shirt over his head, shimmies out of his sweatpants, and shoves them into the hamper.

“What are you doing?” Oliver snorts.

“Taking a shower,” Elio reaches out and slides Oliver’s boxers down over his hips. “You’re about to fall over,” he says quietly. “Maybe you do have a fever.”

“I’m just tired,” Oliver mumbles, kicking the boxers off his feet. “Happens every year.”

Elio nods. “Well, you look and sound awful,” he says, turning to stuff Oliver’s underwear into the hamper. “Get in,” he points toward the shower.

As Oliver slides the door open and steps beneath the spray, Elio shoves his own boxers off and deposits them into the hamper with the rest of the laundry. He slips into the shower behind Oliver, leans against his back for a few seconds, then reaches around him to grab the shampoo, squeezing some into his palm and stretching up to work it into Oliver’s hair. Oliver faces the water, slumped forward as he lets the heat and steam work whatever magic they can. He startles a bit when Elio nudges at his hip, pushing him to turn around.

Elio holds his soapy hands up when Oliver frowns at him. “I can’t reach if you’re—”

Oliver nods, tips his head down and moans, shoulders drooping when Elio works gentle fingers at the base of his skull, presses the pads of his thumbs into the tense spots above the ridges of his ears. Oliver watches Elio’s face intently — the tiny wrinkle of worry between his brows, the tenderness in his eyes. He lets Elio guide his head back to the water, rinsing the shampoo away and sighing at each continued drag of Elio’s fingers over his scalp.

“Is it helping?” Elio asks. His voice is barely a whisper but still echoes around them.

Oliver blinks his eyes open and leans in, presses their foreheads together and sighs, nods slowly. “You’re helping.”

“Good,” Elio nods. “Can you stand up a little bit longer?”

“Yeah,” Oliver starts to laugh, but it turns into a rough cough. He turns himself away, his body convulsing as he coughs into the fold of his arm.

“Sorry,” Elio grimaces, stepping forward to rub Oliver’s back once he’s managed to catch his breath.

Oliver shakes his head, turning his face and letting the water wash over him for a few seconds. “You didn’t do anything.”

Elio shrugs. “Made you laugh.”

“You weren’t trying to,” Oliver mutters.

“I know,” Elio nods. He grabs the soap and lathers it between his hands, reaches out to rub it over Oliver’s chest.

Oliver coughs again, less harsh this time. He holds his wrist over his mouth, closes his eyes until it passes. Once it does, he shakes his head, blinks water out of his eyes. “I can do this,” he says, attempting to take the soap from Elio’s hand.

Elio shakes his head. “I know,” he nudges gently at Oliver’s hip, turns him around. “Let me.”

It’s an unexpected relief, Oliver finds, to slowly turn his face toward the warm spray of the water. He lets Elio bathe him, lift each of his arms and wash him clean, loosen the muscles in his shoulders and back, knead his calves and thighs. His head is still heavy, and he knows the congestion is still lurking just beneath the surface, but he’s warmed, through and through, deeply relaxed and content to be just where he is. He’s only mildly surprised to find himself half hard by the time Elio turns him back around.

Elio looks down and smirks, one eyebrow cocked proudly.

Oliver snorts. “Yeah, let’s see what happens if I do that to you.”

Elio chews at the inside of his cheek, tries to keep his smile in check but can’t manage it in the end. He shakes his head, “Yeah, okay.”

“I think I’m squeaky clean,” Oliver murmurs. “What about you?”

“I showered this morning,” Elio shrugs, reaching past him to turn the water off. “I told you — you looked like you were about to pass out.” He opens the door and steps out onto the rug, grabbing the towels from the hook behind the door. Elio quickly wraps one around his own waist and looks up at Oliver, holding another towel open in front of him. “Well?”

Oliver stares at him from just inside the shower door for a moment, he feels warm again and wonders if it’s the cold or something else entirely. He steps out of the shower and lets Elio dry him off, wrap the towel around his waist, and scrub another over his hair. The moment Elio steps back, Oliver drapes his arms over his shoulders, pulls him forward until they’re chest to chest, hugs him tight. Elio’s arms come up to circle Oliver’s waist, neither minding the smudge of damp skin pressed together as they sway slightly to and fro.

“You should get dressed,” Elio mumbles into Oliver’s shoulder.

Oliver plants a kiss at Elio’s temple. “Okay,” he whispers, leans in and adds another kiss for good measure.

Elio grins, slumps forward, and bumps his forehead into Oliver’s chest and pushes upright again. “Come on,” he laughs, taking Oliver’s hand and leading him back into the bedroom.

Oliver shivers as soon as they’ve left the steamy warmth of the bathroom, his shoulders creeping up to his neck as he shuffles over to dig around in his drawers for something to wear. Elio grabs the first shirt he sees and tugs it over his head, fishes around for his favorite pair of Oliver’s sweatpants and quickly steps into them. He turns and finds Oliver still huddled over, rubbing frantically at his bare skin to keep warm.

“Here,” Elio comes up beside him, opens the next drawer down and hands him a pair of sweatpants. Oliver tugs the pants on, unwrapping the towel from his waist and draping it over his shoulders. “Do you want a sweatshirt? Or — I can go turn the heat up?”

Oliver shakes his head. “It’ll be fine once I get in bed. It’s just the change from—” he nods toward the shower. “This is fine,” he adds, reaching into the drawer and grabbing a soft, worn t-shirt.

Elio nods. “Give me this,” he tugs at the towel. “Go get into bed.”

“Yeah,” Oliver sniffs, feels the congestion coming back in force. He tugs the shirt on and grabs some socks out of the drawer, shuffling over to the bed and flopping down onto it. He unrolls the socks, pulling them onto his freezing feet and crawls under the comforter, tugging it up over his shoulders, curling up tight and waiting for the chill to leave him.

Elio turns out the light in the bathroom, closes the blinds on the bedroom window, and climbs into the bed. He curls up around Oliver, presses his chest to Oliver’s back, wraps an arm around his waist. Oliver shudders and sighs, so Elio squeezes him tighter, slips a hand up under his shirt and lets the warmth of his palm rest against Oliver’s belly. Oliver’s hand snakes down, finding Elio’s and settling on top of it.

—————

Oliver wakes with his face mashed into Elio’s thigh. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and immediately falls into a coughing fit. Elio tugs his headphones off, concerned, but Oliver only winds up curling back down into the blankets for twenty more minutes.

When he wakes the second time, he rolls over and finds Elio still propped up against the headboard, headphones back in place, pencil between his teeth, score book in his lap. His head snaps up when he spies Oliver moving, and he slips the headphones off and sets them and his work aside on the nightstand.

“Hey,” Elio smooths a hand over Oliver’s forehead, resting it there for a moment to feel his temperature. “You still don’t seem to have a fever.”

Oliver sniffs, presses his face back into the pillows. He takes a breath, then quickly rolls over, sits up and coughs loudly into his hands, head and chest aching each time a fit racks through him. He holds still once it finally passes, eyes closed, breathing heavily through his mouth and into the damp cup of his palms.

“There’s tissues on the nightstand,” Elio’s voice drifts over.

Oliver registers the warm feeling of Elio’s hand trailing wide circles over the span of his back. He nods, reaching blindly over for the tissue box, tearing two, three, four of them into his fist. He blows his nose loudly, unable to help the pitiful whine that escapes him when there’s little to no relief. He crumples the tissues in his hand, looks around aimlessly, and starts to tug the blanket away.

“No,” Elio tugs at the back of his t-shirt. “I put that little trash bin from your office on the floor. You don’t have to get up. Don’t get up.”

Oliver looks over the side of the bed and finds the trash bin sitting just below the nightstand. He nods and tosses the soiled tissues away. “Thanks,” he sniffs out.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Elio asks, a tiny smile as he combs fingers through Oliver’s hair. “I can go down to Second Avenue Deli and get you matzo ball soup,” he offers. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not entirely ridiculous.

Oliver blinks at him. “That’s over a hundred blocks from here,” he rasps out. “Why would you do that?”

Elio shrugs. “You like theirs best.”

Oliver can’t help the dopey smile that spreads across his face. He shakes his head, curls to the side and flops himself across Elio’s lap, presses his face to the soft warmth of his belly and hugs him. “No, you don’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

“I don’t mind, though,” Elio cradles his head, gently massaging his scalp. “It’s only a subway ride.”

“No,” Oliver sighs, arches into his touch, then winces. “I shouldn’t—” he pushes himself away, rolls back to one side of the bed, putting space between them. “ _You_ shouldn’t sit around all day in bed with me. You’ll wind up getting sick, too.”

Elio shakes his head. “I don’t get sick.”

He says it with such self assuredness that Oliver can’t help but scoff, which sends him into another coughing fit. Elio gets up and hurries into the bathroom, returning with a cup of water that he sets on the nightstand.

“Drink that,” he insists once Oliver’s lungs have settled. He climbs back into bed, stretching out on his side and making no move to distance himself from Oliver or his germs.

Oliver fixes him with a look. “You don’t get sick.”

Elio shrugs. “It’s true, I don’t.”

“How is that even possible?” Oliver snorts. He sips the water slowly, grimacing at the scratch in his throat each time he swallows.

“My dad always got colds and stuff like that,” Elio waves his hand. “Whatever… seasonal respiratory ailments went around. And my mom and I have always been…” he shrugs again. “Immune, I guess.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Oliver puts the glass on the nightstand and flops back against the pillows. He rolls to face Elio, propping himself up on his elbow. “What if you were just lucky?”

“For twenty five years?” Elio laughs. “I’m pretty sure I just don’t get sick. I’ll get the sniffles—”

“The sniffles?” Oliver chokes outs.

“Yes, shh, don’t make yourself laugh,” Elio smirks at him. “The sniffles, for maybe a day, and then I’m fine,” he grins. “It’s probably my hearty European upbringing. We had plagues where I come from, you know.”

Oliver laughs-coughs-laughs again.

“Sorry,” Elio frowns, scoots closer and strokes his back. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Oliver shakes his head, smiling. “Plagues.”

Elio arches a brow and nods.

Oliver mimics him, sniffs and licks his lips. “Okay.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the soup—”

“I _know_ you weren’t kidding, that’s why it was so ridiculous,” Oliver chuckles, wide-eyed with amusement. “I love you for offering, though,” he adds, softer this time.

Elio’s smile curves to the side. He rolls forward, plants wet kisses all over Oliver’s face. “I can go down to that place on Amsterdam, at least,” he suggests, leaning back, wiping gently at Oliver’s cheeks.

“Close second,” Oliver nods slowly. “Sounds good.”

“Should I pick up some cold medicine? I’m not sure what you usually take, and there’s nothing in the medicine chest besides aspirin.”

“Whatever box claims it’s going to unclog my nose,” he sniffs again, rolls back and reaches for the tissues. “And ears. May as well pick up more of these, while you’re at it.”

“Sure,” Elio nods as Oliver blows his nose. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Oliver mutters, tossing the tissues in the trash.

Elio yawns, stretches and rolls out of the bed again. “Okay,” he sighs, “I’m gonna get dressed and head out.”

Oliver groans, shoving himself up and out of bed as well.

“Where are you going?” Elio spins back around, hands finding Oliver’s shoulders, pushing him gently back toward the bed.

“Relax,” Oliver laughs, coughing lightly as he does. “I’ve gotta piss,” he peels Elio’s hands from his shoulders, kisses both palms. “I think I can manage. Now go wash your hands, I just kissed my germs all over them.”

Elio snorts, lets his hands fall away. “I told you I won’t get sick,” he says, nudging Oliver toward the bathroom.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Oliver croaks, shuffling toward the toilet and lifting the lid. “I’ve managed to get all the way to the toilet by myself.”

“You told me to wash my hands,” Elio shrugs, turning on the tap.

“I have a sneaking suspicion that you just want to watch over me to make sure I don’t fall down.”

Elio smirks. “Maybe I just want to watch.”

Oliver side-eyes him, shaking his head with a short huff of laughter. He finishes and flushes, stepping over to the sink as Elio moves aside to get a towel.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Elio asks, pushing a hand through Oliver’s hair.

“I’ll be fine,” Oliver insists. He turns off the water and takes the towel Elio offers him to dry his hands. “Unlike you, apparently, I’ve had colds before.”

Elio rolls his eyes and bites his lip to cover his smile. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises, leaning in to peck Oliver on the cheek before ducking out of the room. 

—————

The drug store is fairly crowded. People coughing into the arms of their trench coats, the palms of their hands. Or, drawing the ire of those around, and sneezing, unapologetically, right into the throng. Elio paces the aisle of cold and flu remedies, bumping shoulders with a passerby as his shoes squelch across the linoleum. He picks up three boxes and reads them, front to back — what symptoms they treat, how fast they act, how long they last, the dosage, active and inactive ingredients. No one box is more helpful than the last. In the end, he tries to cover as many bases as possible, choosing four different medications and tossing them into his basket.

He loops around to the back of the store, away from the crowd of sick students and teachers, and goes in search of the tissues. On an endcap, near the closed prescription window, there’s a display of VapoRub. His roommate in freshman year swore by the stuff whenever he was sick, but Elio’s never touched it himself. Just remembers the clinical smell of it permeating their apartment, Adam running around taking deep, gasping breaths like he’d just been held underwater.

He takes a small tub off the display, flips it over, and reads _rub a thick layer on chest and throat._ “Up to three times daily,” Elio mutters quietly. He looks around to see if anyone’s watching and pops the lid off the container, looks at the thick, opaque goo inside. He chews at his lip and thinks about Oliver, spread out on their bed, body warm between his thighs. The kind of mess he could make, two hands raking a thick salve over Oliver’s chest, matting his hair, kneading his skin. Curing him and calling him in the same broad strokes.

Elio’s breath stutters out of him when he realizes he’s hard. And still standing in the pharmacy holding a tub of Vicks. He swallows, takes a breath and curses at himself, at his overactive imagination, at his dick. He snaps the lid back on the container and places it into the basket. Grabbing a bag of cough drops, he pretends to study the ingredients, adjusts himself while trying not to look suspicious. He tugs at the front of his jacket, shifts his weight, tries to think of anything other than Oliver.

After a few minutes he manages to get himself mostly under control. He goes to put the cough drops back on the shelf, but figures they might help ease Oliver’s sore throat. He makes his way up to the register, dropping tissue boxes and a few other items into the basket as he goes. The crowd of sick shoppers has thinned a bit, so the line moves quickly, and he’s soon hurrying through the downpour on his way to pick up the food.

—————

Elio’s fairly drenched by the time he gets home. He kicks off his shoes and pauses for a moment at the base of the stairs, listening for any sounds from the bedroom, but all seems quiet.

In the kitchen, he hangs his soggy jacket over the back of a chair and starts unpacking the food. He scoops one giant matzo ball into a bowl and pours soup over it, storing the rest in the fridge for later. Elio grabs a spoon from the drawer and stares at the bowl, realizing the matzo ball takes up nearly the whole thing. He frowns, slides the spoon into the soup, then picks it up again and cuts the matzo ball into smaller pieces. With that done, he pops open the styrofoam container of potato latkes and puts two of them on a plate, along with one of the small plastic cups of sour cream. He carefully stacks the plate on top of the bowl, grabs a few napkins, and loops the bag of cold medicine over his wrist. After a quick check to make sure he has everything, he heads upstairs to the bedroom.

Oliver is sprawled on his belly, fast asleep. Elio can hear his congested breathing as soon as he toes the door open. He leaves the light off, quietly sets the food down on the nightstand, and puts the pharmacy bag on the floor. He changes back into his sweatpants and t-shirt from earlier and carefully settles on the edge of the bed, hip resting against Oliver’s side. He runs his fingers through the hair at Oliver’s nape, scratching gently at his scalp. Oliver turns his face against the pillow, shoulders coming up, body arching forward.

“Hey,” Elio smiles when Oliver rolls his head again, catching the glint of his eyes in the dim room. “Still hungry?”

“Yeah,” Oliver croaks. He pushes himself up and shoves the pillows against the headboard until he can lean back against them.

Switching the light on, Elio waits for Oliver to settle. “Good?”

Oliver nods, “Yeah,” he coughs and grimaces. “Thanks.”

Elio gingerly lifts the soup bowl from the nightstand and passes it over. “Here you go.”

Oliver smiles gratefully and tucks the bowl close to his chest. He waits for Elio to hand him a spoon, slips it into the bowl, and snorts. “You cut the matzo ball up for me?”

Elio opens his mouth, closes it again, then shrugs. “It seemed unwieldy.”

Oliver pushes the bowl back into Elio’s hands, covering his mouth as he laughs-coughs-laughs. He shakes his head when Elio apologizes and hands him a napkin.

“Don’t,” Oliver coughs out. He pauses and takes a breath. “Don’t apologize,” he smiles.

“You ready now?” Elio arches a brow at him.

Oliver nods. “Yeah,” he takes the bowl and brings it up to his chin.

“Careful, it’s still pretty hot,” Elio warns. “Or it was, anyway.”

“Thanks,” Oliver smirks. He slurps just a bit noisily and finds the temperature hot enough to be soothing without a burn. He sighs happily and closes his eyes for a moment before taking another bite.

Elio smiles and takes the other plate off the nightstand. “I got some potato latkes, too.”

“Mmm,” Oliver groans. “That looks amazing.”

“Here,” Elio murmurs, tearing off a piece of latke. He pulls the lid off the little cup of sour cream and scoops a bit out with a fork, shoving the latke onto the tines at the end.

Oliver grins when Elio turns the fork toward him. “Really?”

“Your hands are full,” Elio notes, though not without a hint of laughter. “But I can take the bowl from you if you want to hold the plate instead.”

Oliver opens his mouth and bites the latke off the end of the fork.

“Good?” Elio asks, tearing off a piece for himself and dipping it into the sour cream.

“Very good,” Oliver nods.

“There’s leftover soup in the fridge in case you want more later,” Elio mumbles around another mouthful. “Or tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Oliver smiles. “Did you get more tissues? I think I finished the last box.”

“Yeah,” Elio, nudges the plastic bag on the floor with his toes. “Got some cold medicine and stuff, too. Do you want to take something now?”

“No,” Oliver shakes his head. “Let’s finish and then I’ll look through it.”

They finish eating in a comfortable silence. Every so often, Elio tears off another bite of latke, both of them grinning when he turns the fork toward Oliver, slowly spinning it closer and closer his mouth.

“You’re enjoying this,” Oliver says when Elio takes his empty bowl and spoon away.

Elio lifts his shoulder, then shakes his head. “No,” he rolls his eyes when Oliver’s brow furrows in confusion. “No! I don’t mean— I don’t like that you’re sick. I just want you to feel better,” he wraps one of Oliver’s hands in both of his, kisses each of his knuckles. “But, I like taking care of you. Besides, you’d do it for me.”

Oliver grins, lets his head drop back against the pillows. “Good thing you don’t get sick, huh.”

“You’ll just have to do other things for me, instead,” Elio hums. He reaches down for the bag on the floor, grabs one of the tissue boxes, and tosses it into Oliver’s lap. “I’m gonna bring the dishes downstairs and get you some water. Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

Elio nods, stacking the empty dishes and collecting their used napkins. “Be right back.”

“Okay,” Oliver rasps. He tears open the box and pulls out a few tissues, blowing his nose loudly. When he leans over to toss the soiled tissues into the trash, he sees the plastic bag on the floor and reaches for it. He coughs out an incredulous laugh as he dumps the contents of the bag into his lap. He looks at the cold medication first — all four kinds — and tries to figure out which one might be the most helpful. Elio most likely did the same, which is how he wound up with four options, two in pill form, two in liquid, and a full gamut of symptom offerings between them. He tears open the one that promises to last the longest and rips the corner pair of tablets off the foil card, setting it on the nightstand and shoving the box and the other medications back into the bag.

He looks at the other items still sitting in his lap — three packages of cough drops in different flavors, a small tub of Vick’s VapoRub, and a paperback book of New York Times crossword puzzles. Oliver slumps back against the pillows, chuckling quietly as he drags his hands over his face, “Elio,” he murmurs fondly.

“What’s so funny?” Elio asks, coming back into the room with a glass of water and a mug.

“You made tea?” Oliver takes the mug from him once he’s close.

Elio sets the glass down on the nightstand and settles on the bed. “I microwaved the water,” he shrugs. “Mafalda would be horrified. Probably my parents, too, but I was trying to speed things up.”

Oliver nods, blowing gently over the rim of the mug and taking a sip. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Did any of those look okay?” Elio nods toward the bag of medication in Oliver’s lap.

“That’s what I was laughing at,” Oliver grins. He puts his mug on the nightstand. “Well, that and the crosswords. You don’t have enough fun filling the answers in on my regular puzzles?”

“I’m only trying to help,” Elio teases, “you know, if you don’t know the answer—”

Oliver guffaws at that, eyes rolling as he leans forward to swat Elio’s side. He grabs his arm and pulls him fully onto the bed.

“You can just ask instead of leaving them lying around like that,” Elio cackles as Oliver’s fingers pinch at his ribs. “I’m always willing to lend a hand,” he gasps. “Stop, st—” he writhes around across Oliver’s lap. “We’re gonna ruin all the—”

“Fine, fine,” Oliver relents, rolling Elio to the side with a laugh. “I should probably take these,” he mutters, reaching for the pills he’d set aside. He pushes them out of the packet and downs them with a few sips of water.

Elio reaches over him, putting the crossword book in the nightstand drawer. “In case you want it later,” he says. He starts tossing the cough drops back into the bag with the medication. “I’m just gonna put this on the bathroom counter,” he says, sliding off the bed. “You can’t take it again for—”

Oliver throws his head back, sneezes loudly and groans. He reaches blindly for the tissues, wiping his hands and then grabbing another to blow his nose. “Ugh,” he shakes his head. “Twelve hours. If I last that long.”

“That’s not—” _funny_ , Elio’s mind supplies. It’s silly. Just a cold. Run of the mill, a few days at most. But just the thought—

“I’ll be fine,” Oliver says, tugging Elio’s wrist until he’s beside the bed. “You forgot this,” he holds up the VapoRub.

Elio eyes the little container and bites his lip. “I thought it might help,” he says, trying for casual. He hurries into the bathroom and stuffs all the medication into the cabinet.

When he walks back into the bedroom, Oliver has opened the tub and is holding it under his nose. He pulls his face back and replaces the lid. “Well, I can actually smell it, so you may be right.”

“I could help you put it on,” Elio suggests, crawling back onto the bed. He sits over Oliver’s thighs and takes the container from his hands.

Oliver lifts a brow, folding his arms behind his head. “Oh, yeah?”

Elio licks his lips, swallows, and scoots up a little further. “If you want,” he shrugs, slipping a hand beneath Oliver’s t-shirt. He rolls his hips, just a little, and feels Oliver’s half hard cock pressed against him. Elio tilts his head, the corner of his mouth curving up.

“Please,” Oliver murmurs. He grips Elio’s hips and grinds into him, hissing when Elio pushes down to meet him. “Fuck,” he mutters and tugs his t-shirt over his head.

“Don’t get too worked up,” Elio teases. He uncaps the VapoRub and scoops some onto his fingers. “This is supposed to help you feel better.”

Oliver snorts. “I’ll do my best.”

Elio nods, rubs his hands together and smooths them up the line of Oliver’s sternum. He breathes a heavy sigh through his nose as the thick salve smears into tufts of chest hair, turning the sandy gold curls into sticky dark rings plastered to Oliver’s skin. He spreads his fingers wide and pushes them into the meat of Oliver’s pecs. Pokes his tongue between his teeth and grinds his hips down when Oliver closes his eyes and groans. Elio swallows thickly and asks, “How does it feel?”

“Good,” Oliver breathes. He rubs his hands up and down Elio’s thighs, bunching the fabric of his sweatpants in sweaty palms.

Elio turns his hands, grazes the backs of his knuckles over the peaks of Oliver’s nipples, and draws a gasp. He sways lightly when Oliver’s hips leave the mattress, pushing against him until he moans. “Oh, fuck,” Elio complains. “I can’t _—”_

“What?” Oliver mumbles dazedly. “What is it?”

“Help me,” Elio scrambles backwards. “Get these off. Push them,” he commands, holding his sticky palms up and nodding at Oliver’s pants.

Oliver sniffles a bit, grunting as he struggles to hold his hips off the bed and push his sweatpants and underwear down. Elio tugs them over his feet and shoves them onto the floor. “Don’t put those back on,” he mutters, holding his hands up as he shuffles forward on his knees. “It’ll burn.”

“Yeah,” Oliver nods, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as Elio lays between his legs.

Oliver’s cock is thick and heavy, flushed against the pale of his belly and Elio’s mouth waters at the sight. At the way it twitches when he inches forward and breathes hot over the slicked head. He whimpers softly and grinds his hips against the mattress, smooths his hands over Oliver’s rib cage, around his sides, pushes them under his lower back and down. Squeezes the globes of his ass and grins. His lips and teeth skim the heat of Oliver’s shaft, and Oliver’s hips roll against him.

Oliver drops his head to the pillow as Elio’s mouth slips over his cock. Takes him in slowly, breathing steadily through his nose. He makes a soft, quiet noise and Oliver feels it vibrate around him. Groans loudly and cups his palms around Elio’s head.

Elio pulls back, his flattened tongue dragging along Oliver’s shaft. He sucks a wet kiss to the head of his cock and dips his tongue into the slit. Takes him in again, sinks down until the tip of his nose brushes against Oliver’s pubes. He relaxes his throat, swallows and feels Oliver shudder.

“Fuck,” Oliver gasps. “Fuck, fuck Elio, I’m—” and then his body tightens, hips bucking lightly as he empties himself down Elio’s throat.

Oliver’s thighs tremble as Elio sucks him through it, collects every drop and lets him slip free. Kisses the wet head of his cock and shifts to rest his cheek against Oliver’s hip.

“Okay?” Elio whispers. His eyelids drift low as Oliver’s hand comes back down to wind through his hair.

“Mmhm,” Oliver hums, then coughs lightly. “Sorry.”

Elio frowns. “Why?”

Oliver flushes beyond his already fevered and satiated pink. “I would have liked it to last a bit longer.”

“Oh,” Elio shuffles up to kiss Oliver’s forehead, his reddened cheeks. His chapped lips. “Don’t be silly.”

“What about you,” Oliver pushes onto his elbows. “Can I—”

And it’s Elio’s turn to blush now. He folds his lips in. Shakes his head and tugs at the wet spot on the front of his sweatpants. “I think finding the VapoRub gave me a head start.”

They both chuckle quietly until Oliver starts to cough.

“Ugh,” he sighs, settling heavily back to his pillow.

“I’m gonna get cleaned up, and then I should really change the sheets.”

Oliver hums. “Just gonna rest my eyes for a minute.”

Elio smiles, leans over and kisses Oliver’s shoulder, then rolls to his feet. He pulls a clean pair of boxers out of the dresser on his way into the bathroom. He nudges the faucet with the back of his wrist and waits for the water to heat up before scrubbing his hands underneath. After washing away most of the sticky VapoRub, Elio wrinkles his nose and grabs Oliver’s nail brush. He scrubs at his fingernails until his nail beds feel a bit too raw, but the icy hot gel is gone. 

With a faint grimace, he kicks off his sweatpants and boxers, stuffs them into the hamper, and steps into the shower to rinse off.

When he returns to the bedroom, the linens are piled on the floor and their comforter is sitting on the chair by the window. Oliver has changed into pajama pants and a weathered t-shirt and is hunched across the mattress, struggling with the corner of a clean fitted sheet.

“What are you doing?” Elio mutters, hurrying over to nudge him out of the way. “I would have done it.”

Oliver backs up and coughs into his elbow, closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply before opening them again. “I felt a little better.”

“Still,” Elio shakes his head, moving to the opposite side of the bed and tucking the sheet under. “You shouldn’t exert yourself.”

Oliver lifts a brow, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“More than necessary,” Elio corrects. “Get back in bed.”

“I still have VapoRub on my ass,” Oliver mumbles, but climbs into bed anyway.

Elio grabs the comforter and flips it over the bed, draping it evenly and then tucking it around Oliver’s chest. “I’m going to get you some more water and—”

“Hey,” Oliver laughs softly and loops his fingers around Elio’s wrist. “I’m all right for now. Promise.”

“The medicine must have kicked in,” Elio smirks. “You sure you don’t need anything?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Just your company.”

Elio grins and brushes Oliver’s hair from his forehead. “I was going to read for a bit,” he moves to the other side of the bed and pulls a book from the stack on his nightstand. “Do you mind the light?”

“Not at all. What are you reading?”

“That book of poems my mother brought last time they were here,” Elio sets the book down on the bed and shoves his pillow up against the headboard. He crawls beneath the blanket and slouches comfortably, stretching his legs out in front of him, picks up the book and tugs gently at the ribbon marker. “You sure you don’t mind? I can go in the other room.”

Oliver shifts the blankets and curls to rest his head in Elio’s lap. “I’m sure. Read to me, will you?”

“It’s in French,” Elio murmurs, carding his fingers through Oliver’s hair.

“That’s all right,” Oliver hums, already taking on a sleep heavy tone. “I just like to hear your voice.”

Elio smiles, moves the ribbon marker out of the way and licks his lips. “ _Sous le pont Mirabeau…_ ”

Outside, the rain has gotten heavier, coming down against the windows in sheets, but the rhythm of Elio’s softly murmured French soothes over it. There are words that Oliver knows. Recognizes from here or there, but he doesn’t try to hang onto their meaning.

He knows that he won’t feel better in the morning — that it will take a few days, or a week before he’s back to himself. But, unlike other years and other colds, he will feel warm, content, and loved. And it makes all the difference in the world. Oliver lets his mind rest. Lets himself drift to the sounds of softly gliding consonants. To the feel of Elio’s fingers dragging over his scalp. Lets himself sleep, knowing that tomorrow, he will wake to Elio by his side, and he will be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this two years ago while I was working on 'no one is watching...' It was a scene that I loved, but that did not fit anywhere in the main story, so I kept it and just kind of plugged away whenever I could. There are a few more of these laying around that I hope to get to! <3
> 
> Thank you to AJ for helping me with title ideas, Sarah for beta reading, and Bart for sprinting (always).


End file.
